Warning at One

by Ann Purser

  All doors into the ground-floor rooms were closed, and Lois went quickly up to the bathroom and looked out into the garden. She thought it was empty, until a movement directly under the window caught her eye. A small line of outbuildings led from the back door, and she saw the same rear view of the man she had seen a couple of minutes ago. This time he went into an outhouse and shut the door carefully behind him. Why on earth should he do that? She slipped off her own watch and went downstairs.

  "Found it," she said with a smile, showing her watch to Mrs. Blairgowrie, who was still standing in the hall. "By the way, I thought I saw someone in your garden. Is there a back way? Perhaps you should keep it locked."

  Mrs. Blairgowrie shook her head, but Lois was already at the sitting-room door. She opened it and went in. Mrs. Blairgowrie followed. "I think you must be mistaken," she said. "There is no back entrance. Makes it safer against burglars, fortunately. We've even got broken glass on the top of the wall. I didn't put it there, of course. I couldn't bear it if children came over to get a ball or something, and hurt themselves. No, it was there when we came, and I haven't yet had it taken away. You may have seen my son, Alastair. He's around somewhere, and probably went to use the outside loo. I'll be fine now, thank you."

  Lois took a deep breath, remembering in a flash Susie's tale of being bound hand and foot. Still, Josie knew where she was, and would raise the alarm. "I'd like to meet him," she said, and sat down in an armchair. Mrs. Blairgowrie remained standing, and Lois thought maybe she had been impolite, so stood up again. They had a short, halting conversation and then the door opened.

  "Have you got rid of—" He stopped, glaring at Mrs. Blairgowrie. Then his expression changed to a polite smile, and he extended his hand. "Mrs. Meade, isn't it? Pleased to meet you. Your cleaner's been doing a great job, hasn't she, Mother?"

  How does he know who I am? thought Lois. Aloud, she said, "Clever of you to recognise me."

  A flash of irritation crossed his face, and was gone. "Mother keeps me up to date on local news," he said, and looked at the old lady, who frowned meaningfully at him.

  "She's pretty good, considering how little she can see, don't you think?" he added hastily. "But the neighbours are kind, and tell her what's going on."

  "Like the murder of Mr. Fitch," Lois said calmly. "That was horrible, wasn't it? Are they anywhere near catching the man who did it? You must be worried about your mother living here alone."

  Mrs. Blairgowrie answered for him. "I'm fine," she said. "So many locks and bolts at night that no one could get in. Alastair has made sure of that."

  He shrugged, ignoring her. "I really have no idea about the investigation, Mrs. Meade," he said. "As you know, I live quite a long way from Tresham. But I am sure the police are following up a number of lines. We can trust them to do a good job, don't you agree?"

  Mrs. Blairgowrie was overcome by a sudden fit of coughing, and excused herself to fetch a glass of water. Alastair moved nearer to Lois, and she stiffened. But he merely leaned close to her and hissed, "Do not alarm my mother, Mrs. Meade. And if you take my advice, you will leave everything to the police. Very unsafe to do otherwise. This could be a very dangerous operation."

  Lois did not flinch. "Operation?" she said. "What operation?"

  Mrs. Blairgowrie came back into the room, no longer choking, and said, "We mustn't keep you, Mrs. Meade, and Alastair and I have business to discuss."

  "I'll see you out," Alastair said, leading the way. As they reached the front door, he repeated in a whisper, "Very unsafe. Don't meddle, Mrs. Meade."

  THIRTY-TWO

  "WHAT WAS ALL THAT ABOUT?" JOSIE SAID.

  Lois sat down heavily in one of Douglas's new chairs. "Make us a coffee, Josie, there's a good girl," she said.

  Josie realised that her mother was shaking with anger, and went swiftly into the kitchen.

  "I'm perfectly okay," Lois called after her. "Just livid. That gross character actually threatened me! Told me to mind my own business, more or less."

  Josie answered her gently. "Why did you scoot across there, Mum?" she said.

  "To check on whether Mrs. Blairgowrie was satisfied with Dot, of course. And to meet her son. He shouts at her, Dot said."

  "Well, that's none of your business, is it," Josie said. "New Brooms just cleans. It's not a branch of Social Services."

  Douglas had appeared, and heard Josie's last remark. "Nor the Secret Service, Mum," he said, and added, "What is all this? Why are you two here anyway?"

  Josie explained about Susie's anxiety, and Lois was glad to change the subject. "At least you weren't gagged and bound in the attic, Douglas," she said. "Better give the girl a call."

  After Lois had left, saying she had another client to see on her way home, Josie stayed on with Douglas for a while. "Mum was really shaking," she said. "D'you think she's getting into something dangerous? Old Clem was murdered by somebody very nasty indeed, and whoever it was, he won't stop at anything to throw the police off the scent. Should we warn Dad?"

  Douglas thought for a few minutes. "We can do," he answered, "or we could help. See if we can uncover something new to get the whole thing sorted out quickly. You know what Mum's like. She takes no notice of warnings, even from Dad."

  "What? You mean join the New Brooms Detective Agency? No, thanks, not me. I've got a business to run. And you ought to stay clear, too. New job, new house, new girlfriend. You don't want to muck it all up, do you?"

  Douglas shook his head slowly. "But she is our mum," he said.

  Josie sighed. "Oh, all right," she said. "But what can we do?"

  "You're well placed to listen and ask innocent questions in the shop," Douglas said. "And I can ferret around up and down the street. Somebody must know something. What did Mum say about the Braeside lot?"

  "Nothing much. Just that the old lady's son had threatened her to keep her nose out of their business. And something to do with Dot Nimmo. She's cleaning over there now."

  "Right," said Douglas. "Let's give it a week, and then meet up and report. Now," he added with a sudden pang of conscience, "I'll ring Susie. Poor kid's nervous since that awful business with Clem."

  He had a somewhat soppy conversation with Susie, and then brother and sister left the house together.

  * * *

  IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON WHEN LOIS PARKED HER VAN AND WENT thankfully into Gran's warm kitchen.

  "WI tonight," was Gran's greeting. "Why don't you come? Do you good to get out a bit. It's an interesting speaker, a woman from Tresham Museum, talking about what they've got there, and maybe arranging a visit."

  Lois frowned. Would Gran never give up her campaign on behalf of Women's Institute recruitment? "I didn't know there was a museum in Tresham," she said.

  "Nor did I," said Gran, "and I lived there for forty years. Should be good, anyway. Why don't you come, just for once, just to please me."

  Lois was too weary to argue, and to Gran's surprise and delight said she would think about it. When Derek came home, he added weight to Gran's suggestion. "Take your mind off things," he said encouragingly.

  "What things?" Lois answered grumpily.

  "Oh, just things," Derek said airily. "Let's have tea, Gran," he added. "Chocolate cake, if my eyes don't deceive me. Cheer up, gel," he added to Lois, "and give us a kiss."

  Lois kept her mother in suspense until seven o'clock, and then said, "I'll come, Mum. Just this once. Funny to think there's a museum in Tresham and none of us knew of it."

  "Tell the woman I got some old farming bits and pieces if she's interested," Derek said, seeing them off at the door. "Enjoy yerself, me duck," he added, and Lois scowled at him.

  WI MEMBERS WERE BUSTLING ABOUT THE VILLAGE HALL WHEN they walked in. Several of the women stopped setting out chairs and welcomed Lois. "Nice to see you, dear," they said. Lois nodded and managed a smile. "Can I help?" she said, and endeared herself to them for life by offering to carry a heavy trestle table from the shed outside into the hall.

  The
speaker was a chubby woman in her sixties, pleasantfaced with a ready smile and a friendly voice. She arrived carrying a large cardboard box and carefully unwrapped several strange-looking articles and placed them on the trestle table.

  A loud voice from the row of members commented, "My mother had one of those! I remember it very well."

  "Trust old Ivy Beasley to one-up the speaker," Gran whispered to Lois. Lois had had some dealings in the past with Miss Beasley from Round Ringford, and turned to look at her. Same old hatchet face, iron-grey hair, and accusing expression. "Evening, Miss Beasley," she mouthed across the others.

  "Pity they don't put her in the museum," muttered Mrs. Pickering, Floss's mother, sitting the other side of Lois.

  "My name is Audrey Lambert," the speaker began, and in no time the audience was hooked. She described the setting up of the museum a number of years ago, when an old farmhouse—Brightwell Farm—was bequeathed for the purpose by a rich and lately deceased farmer. Like most small market towns, Tresham had grown into a widespread urban community, and this philanthropic ex-farmer and county worthy had felt strongly that the old town and its way of life should be remembered. He had endowed the project with a suitably large sum of money, and in the years since it began, a unique collection of old domestic and agricultural artefacts from all aspects of life had been established. Mrs. Lambert had set out a row of heavy pottery spiral moulds for jelly and blancmange, a board with bells to summon the servants, and an enamel measuring jug belonging to a milkman who called with his horse and cart laden with churns of fresh milk.

  "I've still got one of those jugs," Ivy Beasley said challengingly.

  Mrs. Lambert was used to the likes of Ivy. "How lovely," she said. "Perhaps you would like to donate it to the museum?" Ivy's mouth shut like a rat trap.

  The time went quickly, and members were still asking questions when two committee ladies came in with tea and cakes. Mrs. Pickering popped up and said she was sure Mrs. Lambert would be exhausted very soon, and perhaps it was time to thank her very much for such an interesting evening. Enthusiastic applause greeted this, and she was led to a rickety card table to share tea and homemade cakes with the president and secretary.

  Gran and Lois sat with Mrs. Pickering and chatted about village matters. Then Lois said, "Have you got a buyer for your house, Mrs. Pickering?" Floss had told her that several people were interested.

  "Look's like we've had a reliable offer," Mrs. Pickering answered. "So many of these people are just curious, or else they've got houses to sell and are in a chain stretching back miles. But this man seems to have ready cash. No house or flat to sell, he says. Man on his own, apparently."

  "What's his name?" Lois asked.

  "Smith, believe it or not!" Mrs. Pickering laughed, and then people began to clear plates and cups and the speaker was seen off with another round of applause. Gran said they needn't stay to help wash up. "Mostly the committee do that," she said, judging correctly that Lois was keen to get home.

  THIRTY-THREE

  MRS. BLAIRGOWRIE SET THE BREAKFAST TABLE FOR TWO, and went into the hall. "Get up now, if you want any breakfast," she yelled. She saw the post flop through the letter box and onto the doormat in the hall. Modifying her voice, she called, "Thank you, dear," to the plump, red-haired postlady, who always knocked lightly on the door to tell Mrs. Blairgowrie her post had arrived.

  "Oh, my, a vision of loveliness," she said, turning back to the stairs where a slender woman was descending. She wore sensible shoes, a calf-length grey skirt, and a pale cream jersey, topped off with a single string of pearls. Her hair was neatly crimped into queenly waves.

  "Those are real pearls," Mrs. Blairgowrie added, "so just be very careful with them. And I want them back. They were my mother's."

  The thin woman nodded. "It's very kind of you to lend them to me," she said, in a high, genteel voice. "How do I look, Babs? Good enough to join the club?"

  "Like every other respectable old dame in the supermarket queue," answered Mrs. Blairgowrie. "Come and eat your porridge, Pat. Best that Scotland can produce, though I says it as shouldn't."

  "Scottish!" laughed Pat. "That's a joke, for a start." But she ate the porridge hungrily.

  "So where are you going next?" Mrs. Blairgowrie slid bacon and egg onto a plate and put it in front of Pat. "You can't stay here, obviously," she said.

  "Thanks for nothing," the woman replied. "But don't bother your little head, Babs. I've thought of the perfect place for someone wishing to be inconspicuous."

  "Where?"

  "You're the last person I'd tell," Pat said. "I know very well that dear Mummy can't keep anything secret from her darling son. So no, I'm not telling you. Maybe you'll find out someday, when you need a place yourself."

  Pat got up and walked over to the bookshelves behind Mrs. Blairgowrie's chair. "Ah, I see you've still got one of mine," she said. "Hang on to it. It'll be worth a few bob one day," she added, and disappeared upstairs.

  "THEY'RE EXCHANGING CONTRACTS IN TWO WEEKS," FLOSS SAID to Miss Ivy Beasley. The young girl and the old dragon got on surprisingly well. Lois had not been too sure that Floss would have the strength to stand up to Ivy, and quite expected her to come back in tears after her first session of cleaning for Miss Beasley. But Floss had a soft heart and a clever head, and summed up her crabby old client in no time.

  "She's not been used to depending on people," she had reported to Lois. People in Ringford had told Floss that Ivy was more or less boss of the village in the old days. She had looked after her mother until she died, and then carried on living in the same house, keeping it chilly and immaculate and planting her vegetable garden in disciplined rows in the spring. "Must be hard for her to accept help now," Floss said. "I treat her with great respect, and make her feel important. Seems to work. I like going there."

  Lois breathed a sigh of relief. Not many people would willingly put themselves at Ivy Beasley's mercy. She had only two real friends: Ellen Biggs at the Lodge, and Doris Ashbourne in the old folks' bungalows in Macmillan Gardens. With typical ironic wit, villagers knew them as "the Three Graces," and all of them were getting on in years.

  Now Floss had made the usual cup of tea for Ivy and, under instruction, perched on the edge of a kitchen chair, stroking Ivy's cat and munching a biscuit. "Let's hope it all goes through," she added.

  Miss Beasley had been very interested in the sale of the house. Years ago, she told Floss, the house had belonged to a rich aunt of hers. "A widow woman," she said acidly. "And then this gold-digging man came along," she continued, "and the silly woman went off with him. Married him, what's more. She didn't last long, needless to say, and he got all her money."

  "I expect he married again," Floss said. "They usually move on to the next lonely rich widow."

  Ivy was silent for a minute, sipping her hot tea. Then she said in an unusually quiet voice, "It happened to me once. But I had more sense," she added sadly. "I discovered what he was up to just in time." This was not strictly true, as Ivy had been left at the altar by her unscrupulous lodger. She had weathered the blow, of course, and reverted to the old sour Ivy in due course. Now she looked at Floss, who smiled back sympathetically, but knew better than to quiz Ivy.

  After a deep sigh, Ivy was back to normal. "Who's buying it, then?" she asked. "That couple you told me about?"

  "No," answered Floss, "they backed out. It's a man on his own. Mr. John Smith, he says his name is. He's got cash, and wants to move in as soon as poss."

  "John Smith? Sounds suspicious to me," said Ivy. "Better tell your parents to get everything signed and sealed before they hand over."

  Floss assured her the solicitor would take care of everything. "And Dad's no fool," she added. "Not many people get past him."

  After she had left, Ivy sat motionless in her chair. The cat mewed for milk, but she ignored it. "John Smith," she muttered to herself. It was almost too corny not to be true, but she had a dim memory of somebody else who had called himself that, and had tur
ned out to be rotten through and through. Maybe if she had a little bit of shut-eye, it would come back to her.

  LONG FARNDEN WAS AGOG, AS WAS USUAL WHEN A NEWCOMER was due to appear. Josie was fed up with endless questions as to who was coming to the Pickerings' house, and were they likely to be an asset to the village, or like that stuck-up lot in the Dower House?

  "It's a man on his own, a Mr. Smith. And that's all I know," she said, parrotlike, and making it clear she didn't want to discuss it further with the brassy-looking woman in front of her. Daisy was a relative newcomer herself, and a hopeless gossip.

  "Oh, come on, dear," she said. "You hear all the dirt. You know you can tell me in confidence. I'd never breathe a word."